Page 95 of Ruthless Chaos

Even in slumber, he wears an intense aura. His jaw is clenched, his eyebrows pulled down in a scowl. Alexander’s dark blond hair falls over his face in tangles, sticking up at odd angles, like he was fighting in his sleep. His pink and white button-up is all wrinkled, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons undone.

I have the urge to stroke his face, to smooth out the knot in his forehead, and fix his hair. I catch myself before I actually do it.

When did my feelings about him get this…fuzzy?

My gaze trails the shadowy tattoos wrapping around his forearms, falling to his hands. His knuckles are split, the skin angry and swollen.

Recollection sparks—Alexander was in a fight.

My eyes snap back to his shirt. I misjudged the color of it.

The pink on his white shirt isn’t a pattern. It’s blood.

Liam’s blood.

“Alexander,” I croak.

His eyes snap open. There’s fire in them, as if I’ve startled him. His body stiffens as he glances around the room with clenched fists and flared nostrils.

The anger disappears when his eyes find me.

His expression softens into something I can’t read.

“You’re awake,” he says. I hate that even in this state, my body shivers at the sound of his husky voice. “How do you feel?”

A small yawn escapes me. “Like I got hit by a bus.”

Alexander smirks, sagging forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“What happened?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t remember?”

I shake my head, but he doesn’t explain.

With each second of silence, my panic heightens.

Did I accidentally reveal my identity? Have the people who want to kill me because of my father found out I’m here? Did something happen to me as part of some messed up ritual? Did I get into a fight too? My chest tingles.

I lift the covers to check if I have injuries, too.

Oh god. My dress is gone.

I remember what I wore to the party. Instead of the cream-colored slinky dress, I’m wearing aman’st-shirt.

I look up at Alexander, horrified.

His smirk widens. I grow faint, the edges of my vision spotting.

Did he?

He wouldn’t, would he?

I don’t think he would, but he could, couldn’t he?

My body trembles, and my eyes burn. This must be his room. If I’m in his bed,in his clothes, then we must have—

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” He interrupts my thoughts. My eyes flick to his face, searching for any evidence I can believe him. “What kind of person do you think I am?”